Never Quite Free
by Woefulfireflies
Summary: An ever expanding collection of possibly vaguely related Rumbelle drabbles. Categories may vary.


_AN_: Not seen tonight's episode yet, so if there's anything new and exciting in the Rumbelly world, I wouldn't know yet. I mean, if I should have accidentally broken a new canon or something. I don't know. Just, you know, R&R or something.

Never Quite Free

She whipped around, hair flying in her face, and glared furiously at the empty hallway. She knew she had heard something this time, felt some ghost of movement in the air behind her. She gripped her wash cloth hard enough to squeeze most of the dirty water onto the skirt of her gown. She remained standing like that, wet dress and all, for some moments, eyes still boring into the nothingness, before returning to the task at hand; cleaning an ancient and ridiculously grimy picture frame.

It had begun a few days after she arrived at the castle, after he had let her out of the dungeon and stopped following her everywhere. The first week or so he had kept her in sight almost constantly, locking the door to her chamber at night, unlocking it in the morning. He had her clean out only the rooms in use; the library, the kitchens and the hall where he kept the spinning wheel. But after a while he seemed to begin to trust her, and shooed her out to clean other less used parts of the castle. The doors, she presumed, were locked and hidden with magic, so why he should distrust her was a mystery to her. But when she did begin to work other places, she kept feeling like he was standing just behind her. She heard the ghosts of echoes of things that had once been noises, felt the movement of air as if someone had just walked past her, but there was never anyone there. _He_ was never there. Because he had sworn that no one but the two of them lived there, a thought that both pleased and disturbed her, though she couldn't quite put her finger on either reason. Yet there it was, this presence. She had been thoroughly baffled the first times, but after a few days it became routine, albeit an uncanny one. Of course, that didn't stop her instinctively jumping every time she heard something.

She had almost worked up the courage to talk to her master about it. But not quite. Her few weeks here so far had convinced her that he meant her no harm. If he did, he was very discreet about it, and that was seldom a description he embodied. His theatrics and flourishes amused her, to some extent, but at the same time they made him a difficult person to talk to. She never quite knew whether he was serious. His giggle certainly did not appear to have anything to do with the matter, and she had not yet learned to decipher the exact nuances of his grins enough to understand more than whether he was in a generally good or bad mood.

–

A gleeful giggle escaped his lips as he watched her tremble with annoyance and the probably quite chilly wash water. Oh, but she _was_ a fun toy to play with. Her flustered faces were always so full of emotion, of life. He had missed that in his castle. The half way conscious dolls did not count. Belle was so animated, so... his fingers fluttered erratically, trying to find the words that fit her, but failed. She defied description at times. But he enjoyed watching her, through his magic mirrors. He enjoyed her overly suspicious looks whenever she entered or left a room. She seemed to look desperately for whatever she thought was just behind her, something which naturally made him play with her more. He weaved currents of wind which went through the castle, fluttering softly past her, brushing the edges of the dress he had made her, ruffled a lock of her hair ever so slightly. He spun sounds that whispered in her ear and spoke softly of something stalking her. He never went further than the insinuation of a presence, but it seemed to work well all the same.

Sometimes he gave her breaks. On occasion it was because he had to venture out into the world, and other times because he had duties to attend to in his castle. At other times, though, he just liked to watch her. His magic made sleep a pleasant way to while away an hour or two, but not a necessity, and so he had spent not a few hours spinning at his wheel, weaving a window of magic in it, and watching her sleeping form. She looked so peaceful like that, none of the fierce bravery and energy of her waking self. He preferred the latter, naturally, but watching her like that brought back memories of older, more human feelings than he was willing to admit to himself. After all, she was his prize. A special one, a living and quite wonderful one, but a prize none the less. And prizes were kept and displayed and played with. Nothing more. He had to remind himself of that quite often, these days.

_AN2_: Named for the Mountain Goats song. For absolutely no obvious reason other than that I'm bad at naming fics, especially drabbles. And yes, I like writing Rumples as a mess of visual language and alliteration. Apparently. It's what I do to separate him from the more coherrent but also angstier Mr. Gold.


End file.
